


Make Them Last

by NoStraightLine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Sexy Times, irresponsible eroticization of smoking, jumpers!, lestrade's quitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStraightLine/pseuds/NoStraightLine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I just think about it in the shower sometimes when I'm having a wank, that's all."</p><p>Lestrade's quitting smoking. John's glad. But first...there's something he wants to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Them Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emungere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Five Blog Entries John Will Never Write](https://archiveofourown.org/works/364125) by [emungere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere). 



> Inspired by: "Lestrade and cigarettes. I've only seen him smoke once in person, mostly it's just in photos, and it's a good thing because it's embarrassing how sexy it is.
> 
> I have to discourage it. I know exactly how bad it is for him, and I want him around for a very long time to come, and obviously I'm not ever going to hand him a cigarette and say, 'Unzip your jeans and smoke this while I suck your cock and you look at me like you looked at the camera in every goddamn photo taken of you between 16 and 25.'"
> 
> I'm totally fangirl, batshit crazy for emungere's work. It makes me go 'guh' and 'gawd' and "holy shit did she really go there/do that yes she did and it was fucking awesome!' Then I have to go lie down for a while.
> 
> A teensy homage (one I will of course take down if asked!)
> 
> (Also, while I'm irresponsibly eroticizing smoking, it goes without saying that a) don't smoke because it will kill you and/or age you and/or shorten the time you have to read fic and b) John Watson wants everyone to quit.)

“I’m quitting cigs.”

John lifts his mouth from his slow, careful exploration of the skin just inside the open collar of Lestrade’s shirt to peer into his eyes. They’re sprawled on the sofa, Lestrade on his back, his hand tucked under John’s jumper at the base of his spine. John’s pressed all against Lestrade's front, and their legs are woven together, the rasp of denim against corduroy providing the soundtrack for a thorough snog.

He knows Lestrade’s been smoking again. Not every day, but once or twice a week John smells it on his clothes, in his hair, tastes more mint than is reasonable for a man who left the house at four in the morning, got home sixteen hours later, and should by rights taste like malt vinegar and chip grease.

He never nagged, and he won’t crow now. “I’m glad. But you don’t have to do it for me.”

“Of course I’m doing it for you,” Lestrade says. “I’m doing it for us. I know they’ll kill me, I know it drives you round the bend, and I know you’ll never say anything about it.”

John denies none of these things. “Going to try the patches again?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade says. “Sixth time’s the charm, right?”

“On average, yeah,” John says. “Um…when?”

“Now.”

“Right now?”

Lestrade nods. They’re at his flat after celebrating their one year anniversary with Thai food and cupcakes. Mrs. Holmes is home for the weekend. Mrs. Hudson is there, as is Anthea and the security detail. There are three grown women and approximately six highly trained, armed security specialists in residence in the various flats at 221 Baker Street. Everyone should be fine, even if Sherlock has recently developed a fascination with the effects of acid on various surfaces, and Mycroft appears to be plotting a strategic takeover of the leader clique at Harrow. John turned off the notifications on his mobile and put it in his coat pocket, resolutely not looking at it for the entirety of dinner and the walk home.

Quitting is a lovely anniversary gift, but…

“You’re sure,” John says.

“I’m sure.”

“Good. Could it wait a few minutes?”

“It could, but I figured my boyfriend the doctor would want me to quit immediately.”

“I do. I really, really do. But…first can we do something I’ve wanted to do for ages?”

“Yes,” Lestrade says without hesitating.

Now that the idea’s out in the open, John’s a little embarrassed. “You don’t want to know what it is? For a copper you have no self-preservation instincts,” he says.

Lestrade kisses him. “What is it?”

Lestrade’s jacket is draped across the chair by the telly. John stretches to reach into the inner pocket and withdraws the half-empty packet of fags, the one he’s not supposed to know is there. Lestrade shifts uncomfortably. He’s wearing jeans and a jumper that shouldn’t look sexy on him but does because he’s just that cool. It’s a thick fisherman’s cable knit in a shade of green that turns his brown eyes into dark chocolate under his silver hair. John loves the way that sweater makes him look, tough and human all at once, and he’s going to get it professionally dry cleaned after tonight so it will never, ever smell of smokes again.

John looks around the flat, thinking about where he wants to do this. There’s a patch of counter between the sink and the fridge. He levers himself off Lestrade, then holds out his free hand. “Come on,” he says with a tip of his head.

Lestrade follows him into the kitchen, where John switches on the light over the stove. Mood lighting, such as it is.

One corner of Lestrade’s mouth lifts. “What’s this, then?” he asks, soft and warm.

The cellophane crinkles in the quiet as John taps one fag from the package. He hands it to Lestrade. “Smoke this while I suck your cock.”

Lestrade’s been a cop too long to be easily shocked. John doesn’t manage it this time, either, but Lestrade does look at the cigarette, then at John’s face before hiding what threatens to be quite a broad smile. “Been thinking about that long?”

Two of the many, many things John likes about Lestrade are that a) he knows exactly how cool he is, how embarrassingly attractive, and b) he’s outgrown the need to make sure people know it. He no longer throws looks like punches, no longer traps with sidelong, sexy glances. But he used to, and he knows he used to, and he knows exactly the effect it had.

“Pretty much since the day we looked through photo albums,” John admits.

“Not going to ask for it.”

“I’m a doctor,” John says. “I’m not going to fetishize your smoking.”

Lestrade looks at the fag, then back at John, mischief in his eyes.

“Much,” John adds.

“I only get one?”

John has to laugh at that. “I’ll allow two. Make them last.”

Lestrade finds a book of matches in the silverware drawer. Looking not at John but at the floor, he taps the butt of the cigarette on the counter, the sets it between his lips.

John’s cock thickens in his jeans. “There’s…um…a look that goes with this,” he says.

Lestrade strikes a match, rounds his shoulders to cup his hand around the cigarette, and inhales to draw the smoke into his lungs. With a flick of his wrist he shakes out the match, tosses it in the sink, then lifts those unbelievable brown eyes to John’s.

John’s heart kicks hard. He’s not thinking about cardiovascular disease. He’s thinking about Lestrade at twenty, reckless, impulsive, uninhibited. “That’s the one,” he says helplessly. “Christ, that is so fucking sexy.”

Lestrade lets smoke drift from his mouth and nose as he stares at John, all sex and night sky and more than a bit of trouble. John goes to his knees, and plucks at the fly of Lestrade’s jeans. He works denim and pants just low enough to release Lestrade’s cock. It’s hard, glans peeking from the foreskin as the shaft lifts with each beat of his heart.

John bends and licks around the furling edges of his foreskin. They both groan at the first contact of lips and tongue to hardening flesh. It’s a solid, luscious mouthful. John lavishes saliva from glans to base as he takes him deep. He looks up at Lestrade and remembers how his hair used to fall over his forehead. Lestrade uses the hand holding the cigarette to caress the shape of John’s skull as he grips the shaft and starts to move in earnest.

“Fuck,” Lestrade mutters, then lifts the cigarette and inhales. Smoke drifts from his lips as he exhales against the building pleasure. He flicks ash into the sink, the cigarette glowing steadily in the dim room.

John slowly bobs his head, working the flat of his tongue against Lestrade’s shaft as he goes down. Lestrade’s head drops back against the cabinet holding his tumblers; John hears them clink together.

“John,” he murmurs. It’s praise and prayer in one. He lifts his head to look down at John, who hasn’t closed his eyes yet. “John. So good.”

His gaze locked with Lestrade’s, John maintains his steady pace. The air around them smells of nicotine and tar and sex, and the look on Lestrade’s face through the penumbra of smoke is helpless against the onslaught of pleasure. He lights the second cigarette from the first, then touches the tip of his tongue to his lower lip. His hips jerk in abbreviated thrusts.

John slides his palm up Lestrade’s abdomen to the center of his chest. His heart’s thumping hard against his sternum, and John flattens his hand there. He needs both, loves both the heedless boy Lestrade used to be, the wiser man he is now.

Lestrade grips the counter with both hands, then his hips still and his whole body shudders. Moments later semen pulses into John’s mouth. He hums his pleasure and swallows once, then again, then pulls off to mouth gently around the foreskin.

Lestrade stubs out the second half-smoked cigarette in the stainless steel sink. “No point in starting back up now,” he says. “Smoking will never get better than that.”

John smiles.


End file.
